Insecurity
by SpiderMonkey241
Summary: He'll do anything... as long as he can trick himself into thinking it's all right. Carlos-angst. Multi chapter. NO SLASH.


_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

The quiet buzzing of the alarm clock next to Carlos' bed made his eyes open slowly, lazily. He had discovered a way to lower the volume- for if he woke too quickly, he might hurt himself.

Again.

The red numbers of the time appeared to be upside down, seeing as how Carlos was laying on his side in his bed. The blankets were pulled taut around him, under his chin, and he was curled up tightly into a ball. That was how he always slept. At least, it had been since the _incident_ occurred.

The Latino did nothing to stop the sound; in a way, it was his only anchor to consciousness. He wanted nothing more than to just sleep the day away, to forget he was even here, but if Logan were there, he would be shaking the bed. insisting that he get up and go to school.

But, what was school to Carlos anymore? Not that it had been top priority to him before the _incident,_ but it wasn't like he paid attention to what was being taught- not then, not before. On the other hand, it numbed his mind, blocking any other thoughts, and for that he was grateful. It was all he could ask for.

Carlos raised his upper body so he was sitting up, his legs stretched awkwardly outward. Not that he could feel the painful strain of the limbs. Stretching his torso forward, he grabbed blindly for the back of his wheelchair and pulled it backwards so it was next to him. Placing both hands on either handle, he hoisted himself up and over so he was sitting on the canvas of the seat.

He tugged off the white t-shirt, discarding it away onto the floor. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, raising his right hand to the bare caramel skin of his chest. His reflection copied him as he fingered the scratches and bruises that marred the flesh before reaching to his back. He didn't even have to search to find the biggest scar, one that wound around his shoulder blades and down his spine. The previous swelling had gone down significantly, but the ugly scar would remain forever, a constant reminder of the _incident._

Carlos pulled on a gray polo- which had too, been on the floor- and worked a pair of jeans over his stiff, unmoving legs.

He turned off the still screeching alarm before picking up his helmet. He didn't put it on, just held it in his hands as he turned it around, examining the object. Shaking his head, he placed it very carefully on the top of his unmade bed, as if it would shatter if handled the wrong way.

Before leaving his bedroom, he reached into his pillowcase and extracted a fat notebook, full of nine year's worth of newspaper clippings, pictures, loose pieces of paper filled with journaling, and pictures.

As he rolled out his doorway, he realized that his father had already left the house. A few weeks after the _incident_, he had figured that his son had gotten over it. Carlos couldn't blame him, though. He did a good job of hiding how he really felt. On the outside, he was fine, but that was as far from the truth as possible. Inside, he was really crumbing, shattering into a million pieces and dying.

On the other hand, Carlos couldn't understand how his dad could be so blind. He hadn't been eating much, nor talking, not nearly as much as what would be considered "normal" for a boy his age.

Then again, in a way, he was glad that his father couldn't see. He would, no doubt about it, want to get his son "professional help", but he didn't need that, did he? Even confined to his wheelchair, the pain would dull with time. A lot of time.

Just as long as he avoided the little "triggers", thoughts or places that would bring it all crashing back, forcing impact like a locomotive.

The sky was gray, covered by thick layers of overcast clouds. No sun. Not a trace of blue sky.

Things were just getting better and better.

It may have been dark outside, but the inside of Lakewood High School shone brightly with florescent lights, bustling with excitement of the new day.

But as Carlos rolled down the hall, the chatter quieted, just like always. Lakewood was a small town, with a grand totally of three hundred and seventy students at the high school, so it hadn't taken long for news of the _incident_ to spread. Most of the people, kids he had known since preschool, never even talked to Carlos. But, really, he preferred it that way. He didn't want to be pitied like some child.

After an _eternity_, it seemed, Carlos finally reached his locker. He quickly entered the three number combination of the padlock before tugging down to open the door.

The interior was empty, with the exception of a few textbooks on the shelf- which had been lowered considerably to benefit him. He placed his sociology book very carefully next to his treasured notebook.

"Hey, Carlos!" called a voice from behind him. The Latino froze. The voice was familiar, way, way too familiar. It was the warm, confident voice that he had listened to during all night phone conversations. The voice that had guided him during countless hockey games and practices. The voice that he had _loved_, had longed to hear since the _incident_ occurred.

He felt tears well up in his eyes, the stinging liquid threatening to spill over. He turned around in his wheelchair. "K-Kendall?"

The blonde grinned, wisps of dirty-blonde hair falling in front of his eyes. A gym bag was at his hip, suspended there by a strap going diagonally across his torso. There was the familiar gleam in his eyes, the one that appeared whenever he was planning something that could potentially get them expelled (but somehow never did).

James stood next to him, laughing and singing a little off-key. He flipped the long, sandy brown locks of hair out of his face before raising to his toes to watch Katharine Mosely walk down the hall. He was sporting _that_ smile, the one that made every girl's heart melt into a puddle of goo.

And then there was Logan, leaning back against a locker, his backpack hanging off of one shoulder. His Calculus book was clutched against his chest, and he was giving his signature _you guys are asses but I love you anyway_ grin. His brown eyes gleamed with affection for his friends. Then he turned, seeing Carlos, and beamed, beckoning to him. "Come on!"

It was such a well-known scene, but Carlos sensed that something was wrong. Something about the way they were talking and moving, almost mechanically.

"G-Guys?" Carlos' voice wavered. The three grinned.

It was then the bell rang, signaling the beginning of homeroom. But he couldn't move his arms; like his upper half was paralyzed, too. The Latino watched as Kendall, James and Logan looked at him strangely, like they were expecting him to do _something._

Regaining control of himself, Carlos grabbed the wheels and tried to move closer to his friends. But, as he approached them, they began to… fade. Into a mist. "Wait!" the crippled boy cried out. "I-I need to talk to you guys!"

He reached out, trying to touch James' arm, but it was too late. They were gone.

The warning bell rang as Carlos painfully crash landed back to Earth. The hallway was totally empty.

He swore to himself that he wouldn't cry, not anymore, but a single tear worked its way from under his eyelids.

"Y-You guys?"

**I'm terrible… what do you think the "incident" was? Review so I'll be motivated to update!**


End file.
